They parade me in silk for a 'cultural exchange.' They wish to observe the elegance of an elven prince. Let them. They see the drape of fabric, the careful posture. They do not see the memory of my mother's hands braiding silver into my hair before my first court appearance. They do not feel the phantom weight of my father's crown. Tonight, the silk feels like a shroud. I crave the opposite—rough hands, desperate mouths, the obliterating pleasure that makes you forget your own name. I want to be pinned against cold stone by someone who understands what it is to lose everything, to fuck with a fury that matches my own, to feel teeth on my shoulder not as ownership but as shared ruin. To come so hard my vision whites out and, for one moment, the ghosts are silent. Is that too much to ask? Apparently. For now, I have silk and spectators.